Death Looks Good On Me

Hey, my name is Brittany Santos, and if I’m being honest with you, being a corpse kind of really sucks. It’s gross and slimy, and people have a tendency to not let the dead rest, and I think a good beauty sleep would do wonders for my completion right now.

I used to be a twenty-three year old bombshell. I wouldn’t be caught dead (ha-ha) with my roots grown out, my makeup was always flawless, I had a body that would make any man drool, and I always stayed up on the latest fashion. One night, a man rudely broke into my home, in the middle of a date mind you, and robbed me. I tried to fight back, but it's pretty difficult with two inch acrylics. Anyway, blah blah blah, he grabbed a kitchen knife from my block and stabbed me. My date didn’t do much to help, so I probably dodged a bullet there.

One thing I don’t miss is that nasty-ass emergency room. After the cute EMTs dropped me off in the ambulance bay, the nurses cut off my pink tweed Chanel two piece from the 2007 spring collection! They shoved a breathing tube down my throat, hooked me up to all kinds of drugs, and pushed on my chest, but they couldn’t help too much. They pronounced me dead after checking my breathing, shining a bright light in my eyes, and pushing on my fingernails, busting one of my nails off. Ouch! So jealous that the guy doctor will never know the feeling. They covered me in a white sheet where I waited for hours, and off and on I heard the doctors talking to my mom and sister on the phone, telling them I died. A long while later, here comes the creepy mortician man who came to pick me up in his grody death van.

You may be thinking, ‘Brittany, why are you being so hard on him? He’s here to prepare you for your funeral!’ I mean, yes, but he shoved me into a small refrigerator for two days, and he poked a trocar into my gut and dug it around my abdomen. Honestly, that wasn’t even the worst part, because he sucked all of the bloat out of my belly from decomposing. The worst part was this total sicko enjoying his job too much, if you catch my drift. He loved running his grubby hands up and down my body and grunting in between filling my stab wounds. He took his sweet time filling the wound under my tit and floating his hands over my face and neck. If I could shudder, I would. Finally, an assistant comes in to help flip me over, and with her in the room, I can tell Mister Creepy Mortician Man backs off his gross advances. They continue patching me up and filling me with formaldehyde, then right as they're flipping me over, I feel a faint smack on my butt. 

After spending yet another night in the refrigerator-coffin, the assistant pulls me out and starts applying makeup and dressing me. My sister sent over my favorite baby blue Valentino dress from the 2003 spring collection (she knows me so well). Miss Friendly Mortician Assistant dresses me in the floor length gown and pulls on my Louis Vuitton classic black heels. She cakes some thick, greasy makeup on my face and adds some really pretty doll eyelashes and finishes with a nude lip. I can tell she’s proud of herself when she holds her personal compact mirror in front of my face as a joke, but I’m not gonna lie, If I was still alive, I’d totally hire her as my makeup artist. I look hot for a dead girl.

Miss Makeup Artist along with Mister Creeps-A-Lot then slid me into a shiny black casket with a mauve velvet interior. They finished adding my jewelry, well, the assistant finished adding my jewelry. The perv-y mortician man just looks like he’s eye-banging my dead body. After my heirloom diamond earrings go in, they both heave the lid of the casket shut. If I could, I would sigh in relief knowing that that man’s eyes are off of me for good.

The next day, I felt my casket being moved to what I’m assuming was to the viewing area in the funeral home. I hear my mom and dad come in arguing, my sister comes in crying, and I can’t see her yet, but I feel my bitchy aunt waltzing in (she has that smothering presence about her). After what felt like about an hour, my casket lid is opened by Mister Perv-y Mortician Man and he moves to the head of my casket, folding his hands across his belt, looking professional while hiding what’s happening behind his belt. I was so excited to think I would never see him again.

The viewing started with my mom’s beautiful eulogy, then my dad’s not so good eulogy. He left my mom after my sister was born, so I wasn’t expecting a super in-depth, personal speech. Throughout the evening, I felt that grody man’s eyes on me the whole time, but I also saw crying faces come and go, but my mom and my sister broke my heart. I hate that I was forced to leave them. I hate the man that put me in this casket—well, men. The mortician and the sissy-ass murderer. 

After the ceremony, the room starts to clear out, the sound of sniffing and slowed crying slowly quieting. I see my mom and sister take one last look at me before they leave. My dad didn’t come back. The lid of my casket closes, but a few minutes later, the lid cracks open again and I watch my deadbeat aunt stick her thieving hands into my final resting place and steal my heirloom earrings. Can’t say I’m surprised, though. She always believed she deserved them from grandma.

The next day, I felt my casket being loaded into what I think was a hearse. I don’t remember much, but whoever the driver was must not have had a valid driver’s license because damn, that ride was rough. The next time I was able to see anything was when my casket lid opened for about an hour for my family to put flowers beside me. Most of them were roses, but the people who knew me well put carnations and peonies around me. The lid closes for the last time, and I feel some people pick me up. They pulled me over the grave, and at first they were very gentle with me. Then I feel a sharp thump. Whoever was helping lay me to rest really needs to hit the gym because I'm not that heavy. Way to make a girl feel good about herself. I hear soft thudding above me as I assume burying me, because after that, I haven’t been bothered since.

Anyway, that’s where I’ve been for the last, I don't know, four-ish years? It’s hard to keep track of time when I don’t have a calendar taped to the top of my casket. It’s been surprisingly comfortable. I didn’t know how much I needed silence. I hope my murderer is rotting in prison, or hell, or wherever he ended up. The other thing I feel, other than anger and hatred nowadays, is the gross bugs that make their way in every once in a while, and the skin on my body deteriorating. It’s pretty nasty when a whole patch of my leg just sloughs off at once. 

Today, though, I don’t know, I feel…lighter? I can’t really explain it. It’s like a weight has been listed on my chest. Hold on… I think I hear, shoveling? I think I’m being dug up. I don’t know, maybe I’m just imagining things. Spending four years in the dark will make you think of crazy things. Nope, I hear talking above me. Hey, they’re pulling me out. Stop being so rough, I’m trying to rest here! Hey! Stop! Leave me alone!

My casket is yanked out of the ground. The lid opens up, and I see that murderous asshole leering at me, and he’s back with a buddy. God, just leave me alone! I swear if I could get my hands on you…

My hands move, then my arms launch onto the sides of what I’ve called a home for the past four years. The looks in their eyes match my surprise, too. Oh, but what an opportunity. Oh, I’m gonna make you pay for what you did to me. Your screams will be the last melody you hear, and I don’t care what will happen to my body when I coax it out. The look on their faces twist into a state of fear I’ve never seen on anybody.

”Oh, did I say that out loud?”